


Strings

by BurningTea



Series: Season 11 fic [10]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s11e06 Our Little World, Not Happy, Very very very short coda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-05-02 07:53:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5240525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BurningTea/pseuds/BurningTea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel reacts to the idea he needs to cut the strings controlling him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strings

**Author's Note:**

> More a drabble than a coda, maybe? I see this as Cas reacting unwisely due to the PTSD and his head having been messed with so much.

Cutting strings is easier said than done. It’s just one of many things Castiel has learned are far harder than they seemed from the outside. Given the perspective of distance, of non-involvement, almost anything can seem simple. It’s a lot harder when he’s standing outside in the rain, hoping that a bus turns up before the Impala does.

Who broke him. That’s essentially what Metatron asked him, back by the side of that railway. Who twisted Castiel until he snapped. 

He’s been asking himself that question ever since.

The constant hiss of rain whites out the rest of the world, keeping it at bay, and Castiel hunches into his coat, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Rivulets of water inch icy fingers down his forehead and the back of his neck, under his collar, and he tells himself he isn’t shivering. Angels don’t shiver. 

Angels don’t stand in the sodden dark waiting for a bus, either, yet here he is. He wishes it didn’t feel so much like running away. 

He has come to understand that he’s long been in the habit of running. Flying. It never felt like a retreat when he had the full use of his wings. It was active, purposeful, eddies of space-time pulling him from one point to another. His wings carried him to battle, bore him to new missions. It wasn’t running away. It was soaring to the next task. If he happened to take such steps through the deep spaces between here and there when Dean had asked a question he wasn’t sure how to answer, or when Dean had looked at him in a way he couldn’t process, that had meant nothing. Angels are not tied to the ground and it’s petty rules in the way humans are.

It’s impossible to pretend there is any grand mission in what he’s doing now. On his own, grounded and bedraggled, he is forced to admit he’s running. 

A car glides past, engine rumbling in counterpoint to the rain, and its headlights flash obscene light into his eyes. All of his eyes flinch shut. He blinks, turns his head. So many small, petty things trouble him now. Not so long ago, he could have stared into the sun without coming to harm, yet now he feels jarred by a few seconds of man-made light. He supposes it shouldn’t be a surprise. 

Dean’s brilliance has been hurting him for years.

In his pocket, his phone rings. It’s blared to life three times since he left the bunker. This makes four. He’s ignored each one. 

Now, a pang of something like regret pulses through him, green and grey. He fishes his phone out and thumbs the lock, noting the number indicating he has a message. More than one. It only takes a moment to confirm three of the calls were from Dean. 

He hesitates with his thumb over the screen. If he listens, there is a chance the strings tied to his heart will pull taut. More than a chance. It’s happened before, finding himself back with the Winchesters when he knows he’s making an unwise choice. Now, when he has nowhere else to go, he can already feel himself wavering. 

It’s too much of a risk. 

A squeal of brakes brings his attention back to the road. The bus. At last. 

Perhaps he should abandon the phone. Dean has tracked him that way before. He considers it, in that long moment as the bus slows and stills, warm air puffing out into the cold as the doors swing open. He considers tossing the phone to the ground, letting it splash into a puddle and sink. It would be one string cut.

Sighing, he slips the phone back into his pocket and steps onto the bus.


End file.
